


You Seem Like A Nice Guy

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Socially awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 15:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20932679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: Arthur's never been the kind of guy who was well understood by those around him, and he can't speak his mind very well to clear up misconceptions.  That just makes him all the more surprised when Curt Wild suddenly joins him for a drink...This is sort of a character study:  every time I watch the movie, I'm more and more struck by how very awkward Arthur is in conversation, with the aching understanding that my own version of Arthur has never really shared that extreme social awkwardness.  So this is just a short get together fic with a focus on Arthur's social awkwardness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please let me know if any inappropriate Americanisms show up in Arthur's POV or dialog. Thanks! :)
> 
> Regarding the experiment that is this story...I think I got the awkwardness pretty close (though much of it was in the performance rather than the dialog and thus hard to replicate) but I may have ratcheted up self-doubt too far (in large part because my best example of social awkwardness is myself).

_“You seem like a nice guy.”_

More than anything else from the investigation for the sabotaged Brian Slade article, it was those six words of Mandy Slade’s that continued to ring in Arthur’s ears, long after everything else had faded back behind the background drone of New York City.

_“You seem like a nice guy.”_

How would she know? He couldn’t have said more than a few dozen words to her, and not a single one was about himself! He could have been a bleeding serial killer for all she knew! So why would she have thought he was a “nice guy” without being given any reason to think so?

Because he had smiled when it was appropriate, nodded sympathetically, acted like he empathised with her suffering? Was that all it took to be a “nice guy” these days? Was it just because he hadn’t said anything to pass judgment on the lifestyle she and Brian had shared?

Maybe it was because he didn’t act like the stereotypical New Yorker (a breed Arthur was convinced was actually mythical), someone who would sooner spit in your eye than offer a helping hand, and cursed you out if you so much as dared ask the time of day. Or maybe it was because he was English, and she still—despite Brian, despite Shannon—thought the English were somehow “nicer” than Americans.

Arthur tried to write it off as meaningless. She had to say something, right? She hadn’t meant anything by it. He didn’t “seem” any nicer than anyone else; she was able to say that because he hadn’t offered any proof that he was an unpleasant person.

But the longer those words rolled around in his head, the more he realised that she had meant them. He seemed “nice” to her. He seemed a thousand things to the people he met.

And not one of them was right.

The first time he’d gotten up his nerve to go to a gay bar in New York, a burly man had stopped him just inside the door. “You lost?” he had asked in a gruff voice. When Arthur had said he wasn’t, the man laughed. “I think you are,” he had said. “This place is for us queer folks. You wouldn’t like it in here. Though you’d be real popular with that pretty face,” he had added, taking hold of Arthur’s chin with the thumb and index finger of one hand. Even when Arthur had brushed him away and said he hoped so, the man didn’t seem to believe it.

Hell, even when Arthur left with a handsome fellow (yet another one-night stand), the man at the door didn’t seem to believe Arthur was really gay.

It happened like clockwork, when he went to a gay bar. Any man who approached him routinely assumed that it was his first time there, and expected to be treading virgin territory when he shared his bed. Nine times out of ten, they were so angry to discover that he was anything but inexperienced that they accused him of deceiving them. He had, by this point, lost track of how many times he had failed to get laid because his potential partner became furious to learn that they weren’t going to be his first. Why did they expect a man in his late twenties to still be a virgin? Was he so unattractive that they thought he couldn’t possibly have scored before?

For some reason, everyone got the wrong impression of him. Even the people who should know him.

His co-workers had no idea who he really was. They tried to set him up with girls they knew, tried to talk him into joining them for entertainments that bored him into unconsciousness, everything they seemed to think they knew about him (other than his taste in music) was utterly wrong.

Even his few proper boyfriends had failed to understand him in the end. “You’re a cold fish,” they’d say. Or “you don’t care about me at all,” which was _usually_ wrong. “You’re not quiet—you’re just boring.”

Was he really that bad at making himself evident?

What did people see when they looked at him?

Arthur had stared at his own reflection countless times, wondering why everyone else saw someone different behind his eyes than he did. It never made any sense.

Maybe it never would.

Maybe everyone felt that way. Maybe he was misunderstanding them as badly as they were misunderstanding him.

***

By the first spring of Reynolds’ second term, Arthur’s bank account was healthy enough that he was contemplating getting a better place to live. He’d gotten a raise soon after the story on Brian Slade was cancelled; it was probably some kind of kick-back for not telling the truth, because someone in the Tommy Stone organisation (or whoever was pulling Tommy’s strings) assumed that Arthur was as corrupt as they were, and would only keep quiet so long as he was paid to do so. Since he wasn’t refusing the money, maybe they weren’t as wrong as he’d have liked them to be.

And yet the idea of using dirty money to better his life rankled him, so he hadn’t spent the money, except to make his life worse by going out and getting pissed every so often. The area around his flat didn’t have many bars, and the chances of getting mugged around—or even in—them were too high, so Arthur tended to go to the ones near the _Herald_ offices instead. That area wasn’t particularly good, either, but there was at least a bit less street crime there. He tended to get a table rather than sit at the bar, because it reduced the chances anyone would think he was looking for company.

That was why he was particularly taken aback one April evening when a bottle of beer was set down on his table immediately before one of the other chairs was pulled back. Arthur was still deciding whether or not he should say anything when a warm, familiar voice said “You don’t mind me joining you.” Stunned, Arthur looked up. His angle gave him a good look past the hair dangling in front of that handsome face, so he could see the uncomfortable, almost sheepish smile. “Right?”

That uncertainty seemed so alien on Curt Wild’s face that Arthur was left even more bewildered than he had already been, and all he could do was nod.

Evidently, that was all it took, because Curt’s smile became more easy, and he finished sitting down without another word. Then he had a drink from his beer bottle, and fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket before becoming engrossed in the process of removing a cigarette and lighting it.

The whole time, Arthur just sat there in silence, watching Curt’s face. He seemed to have already forgotten Arthur was even there. Hardly surprising: Arthur wasn’t the sort of person who could hold even a normal person’s attention for more than a minute or two, let alone the attention of someone like Curt Wild. But the more Arthur stared at him, the more he could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, the more he was overtaken by the same feelings of helpless desire from ten years ago.

Where had reality stopped and fantasy begun?

After all this time, Arthur wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe he had never been sure. The starting point was a certainty: Arthur absolutely followed Curt around during the party after the concert, staring at him because there was nothing else he could do to express his desire. And the ending point was unquestionable, too, when he sheepishly left the empty rooftop around noon the next day. But the line separating those hard realities from the soft and beautiful fantasy in between wasn’t easy to see.

It was probably the moment when Arthur chose between the two doors.

He had followed Curt out of the room where the party was being held, and found himself in a small hallway with two other doors. The door to the stairs was standing open, and the door to the alley behind the club was shut. Arthur had passed through the open door and started climbing the stairs towards the roof. Curt had probably gone into the alley and caught a cab, anything to get away from the creepy, inconsiderate child stalking him while dressed like the man who had broken his heart. He certainly hadn’t gone up the stairs to wait for that child and fuck him. Why would he? Curt could have had anyone in that entire club, man or woman, with a word, or even a glance. He certainly wouldn’t have settled for _Arthur_.

What bothered Arthur was that he couldn’t remember what really _had_ happened. Had he gone up there and cried himself to sleep on that disgusting old mattress, depressed that he couldn’t attract the desires of a superstar? Had he been so overtaken by the hallucinogens he’d taken that he’d actually _thought_ Curt was up there with him, and had been going through the motions by himself? It was a disturbing thought, to say the least. Maybe someone else had been up there, and the drugs had made Arthur see Curt instead of whoever it had really been. That might have been the best of the three possible realities Arthur could come up with.

Whatever had happened, the next morning Arthur had imagined—or more likely dreamed—that they had sex again, face to face in the beautiful dawn light, and afterwards he had drifted off to sleep again (assuming he’d woken in the first place), only to wake around noon, alone. When he’d gone back to the flat and the Creatures had asked where he’d disappeared to, he’d told them he had been on the roof, alone. Even at nineteen, he hadn’t been stupid enough to think it could really have happened. Better to tell the truth and be laughed at than to risk sharing his delusion only to have them discover the truth later on and think he was a liar. His honesty was the only thing he had, after all.

“We got a problem?” Curt’s voice suddenly asked, snapping Arthur back to the present.

He shook his head. “Why would—why would you think that?”

Curt shrugged, knocking some ashes off his cigarette into the ashtray on the table. “You were sitting there just staring at me. Like you were pissed off or something.”

“That’s not it.”

Curt took a long drag from his cigarette. “No, I guess not,” he agreed. Then he chuckled. “You’re one of those guys who can’t open up to someone until he’s fucked you a few times, huh?”

Arthur’s face felt hot, but he doubted it had coloured like it used to. How had Curt come to the right conclusion when no one else ever did? There was no chance Curt remembered him from ten years ago; after all, Curt had only been aware of a boy following him around, and Curt would have been much more focussed on the boy’s egregious clothing than on his face. “Not…exactly…”

“Time, then? You gotta know someone a long time?”

Arthur shrugged. He wanted to ask why Curt was asking such strange questions, but how could he? If he did that, Curt would become cross and leave, and Arthur would never see him again. Better to be around him just a few minutes longer, no matter how pointlessly…

“I know the feeling,” Curt said, with a sigh that sent cigarette smoke wafting across the table. “You won’t believe me, but I used to be like that.”

“You’re right,” Arthur said. There was no way Curt could ever have been even the least bit quiet. He was naturally outgoing: anyone could see that.

“It’s true,” Curt insisted. “I had to learn the hard way to speak out.” A grim smile. “Second lesson came from inside a needle.”

The first one must have been the electric shock treatments…

Curt suddenly chuckled into the awkward silence that had grown at the table. “There’s a thought,” he said.

“What?”

“Think I’ve got a joint someone left at my place,” Curt said, grinning. “I’d love to watch you smoke it, see how long it’d take to loosen you up.”

The idea of being inside Curt’s flat was almost too much to bear. Even though Arthur knew there was nothing sexual about the invitation, all his desires surged through him like fire. “I’m game,” he said.

***

A shaft of unfiltered sunlight striking his face woke Arthur early; it was such a long time since he’d felt the sensation, of course it roused him. The sensation of a warm body cuddled up behind him was not quite as unfamiliar, but nearly so, and Arthur couldn’t help shutting his eyes tightly, trying to drive out every sensory response but the feeling of Curt’s body behind him, one arm draped across him.

Last night, Arthur had barely begun taking in the awe of being in Curt Wild’s flat—a fairly nice flat, if a bit under-cleaned, in a non-descript apartment complex barely more than a block from the _Herald_ offices—when he became aware of Curt shaking his head and looking disappointed. He was holding a wooden box inlaid with stone and metal and looking at its contents. “No good,” Curt announced, snapping the box shut again before setting it down on top of his television. “Must’ve smoked it.”

Unsure how to respond to that—was he to be asked to leave again so soon?—Arthur had only nodded.

“Guess I could switch to Plan B,” Curt had said, rubbing his chin and levelling a long, deep gaze at Arthur.

“Plan B?”

Curt had dropped his hand then, grinning. “Fuck you real good, see if _that_ loosens you up.”

“Sounds like Plan A to me,” Arthur had somehow managed to say over the roar of his blood surging towards his privates.

Actually having sex with Curt after ten years of remembering a fond, boyish fantasy was almost more than Arthur could handle. Some aspects of the experience were surprisingly like what Arthur had imagined; maybe if he really had succeeded in seducing Curt ten years ago, the reality wouldn’t have been so far off from the fantasy. But the grim, drab realities of 1985 dragged down the beautiful fantasy of the past. Outside Curt’s windows, Arthur had heard the roar of New York traffic, the hiss of brakes and the howls of sirens. Even in the bed itself, beautiful kisses and caresses had eventually turned over centre stage to fussing about with condom packaging, and Curt swearing under his breath about how much he hated the fucking things. Grumbled curses were no replacement for mysterious verses whispered gently, warmly, sensuously in one’s ears.

Arthur left off his contemplations of the previous night’s activities at the feeling of Curt shifting behind him, sliding closer, his arm moving from gently draped to actively holding Arthur. When it became undeniable that Curt was awake, rather than cuddling closer in his sleep, Arthur smiled to himself, and breathed out a soft “Good morning.”

A slight sound, halfway between a simple exhalation and a warm chuckle. “Morning, beautiful,” Curt’s thick voice purred in his ear. Even though Arthur knew the sobriquet was only because Curt didn’t know his name, he couldn’t help feeling a thrill at being so addressed. Imagine if Curt actually _did_ think he was beautiful!

They laid there in the bed in silence for a few minutes, before Curt’s hand started wandering up and down across Arthur’s stomach, starting an excitement that only grew more intense as Curt asked if Arthur was going to have to leave for work soon—it was Sunday, so he wasn’t—and intensified his attentions. The delight of feeling Curt’s erection nuzzling up against him soon gave way to a brief spot of panic as Arthur realised Curt was actively trying to press it all the way inside.

Arthur shifted his bum aside, reaching one hand back to touch Curt’s bare cock. “Condom,” was all he managed to say, his brain completely overwhelmed by the 180° turn from thrilling foreplay to fear of disease.

Curt let out a deep sigh. “What, you don’t think I’m worth the risk?”

Arthur shook his head, rolling onto his back to look at Curt as he moved away, reaching towards the opposite bedside table for the box of condoms. “I’m not worth it,” he said, his voice barely registering even in his own ears. “You can’t risk yourself for me.”

“If you’re always this shy, no fucking way have you got anything,” Curt laughed as he prepared the condom. “Even if you did, no one gives a shit what happens to me.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur assured him, but Curt was too busily dealing with lubricant to show any sign he’d even heard.

They ended up making love face to face—so like Arthur’s fantasy of ten years ago!—but spent only bare minutes snuggling after, as Curt was soon on his feet, headed into the loo. Once he was done, he headed into the kitchen, and Arthur mournfully rose from the bed, all too keenly aware that the magic was over, and he’d soon be sent packing, as he always was.

By the time he followed Curt into the kitchen, the toaster was going, and Curt—still naked—had his head buried inside the open door of the refrigerator. “Think these eggs are about ready to hatch,” he grumbled, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder. “I got bacon, toast and frozen waffles. What do you want?”

“Er, anything, really.” Arthur had half expected to have to buy his breakfast on the way back to his own flat. “Whatever you’re ‘aving.”

Curt nodded, tossed a packet of bacon onto the counter, shut the refrigerator, and retrieved a box of frozen waffles from the freezer above. “If it wasn’t so late, I’d call to have something delivered,” he said, with a weak smile. “Or just go to the deli for a bagel, but…” He shrugged. “Don’t feel like putting my clothes on yet.”

Arthur smiled, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

A frying pan was soon set out on the stove, and Curt set all too many strips of bacon in it, even as the toaster regurgitated a couple of slices of half-burnt bread. As the bacon was sizzling in the pan and the waffles were being toasted, Curt haphazardly slathered too much butter on the two slices of toast, giving one to Arthur, and leaving one at his own place. “You want beer or water?” Curt asked. “I had OJ, but it went off yesterday.”

“Water’s fine.” The idea of beer first thing in the morning was enough to churn Arthur’s stomach.

A glass of tap water was soon deposited in front of Arthur, along with a can of beer at Curt’s place. Undercooked waffles and overcooked bacon soon followed, along with a plastic bottle of squeeze-margarine and a bottle of syrup set in the middle of the table. The awkward breakfast proceeded largely in silence; Arthur was too keenly aware of the fact that he was fully dressed while Curt was still entirely nude to be able to think of anything to say.

Eventually, Curt broke the silence. “Been trying to think,” he commented, after a swallow from his beer can. “You said your name was Arthur, right?”

Arthur’s stomach flurried enough to make him lower his forkful of waffle untouched. He tried to answer with words, but all he could do was nod. Curt thought him worthy enough to remember his name? It was so improbable that Arthur couldn’t react; contradictory thoughts, hopes, fears and wishes flew about inside his brain, colliding and destroying each other.

“Shoulda asked this last night, but…you’re not thinking of writing up any of this in that paper you work for, right?”

Arthur laughed. “I’m not like to commit career suicide, no.”

“Career suicide?”

“No paper would hire a journalist they know is gay.” Arthur shook his head. “Maybe someday, but…”

Curt frowned, and scratched at a scab on his chest. “Huh. Can’t see why they’d care.”

“They shouldn’t, but they do.”

“Must make it hard to get laid.”

Arthur nodded. He had all but given up on having a satisfying love life years ago.

“So why’d you pick a career where you had to be closeted?” Curt asked. “Why not do something where you could stay out in the open?”

“Like what?” Arthur shook his head. “There aren’t many jobs like that. And I wouldn’t be good at them.” Not that he was exactly _good_ at journalism, either; he liked to think he was good at digging down to the truth of a story, but everyone seemed to think his actual articles were mediocre at best.

“With your looks, you could be a model.”

The very idea of being stared at by so many people set a shudder running through Arthur’s body. It must have been visible across the table, because Curt started laughing at him.

Once Curt’s laughter petered out, the room fell silent again, and remained so until Curt got up and dumped his dishes into the sink, running a little water over them. As soon as he’d turned the tap off, he turned to look at Arthur, frowning. He didn’t _say_ anything, just stood there, staring disapprovingly.

“Am I doin’ something wrong?” Arthur asked, when he could take no more.

Curt sighed, and sat down again. “No.” He shook his head. “Just still haven’t loosened up is all.”

Arthur looked down at his mostly eaten breakfast, unable to continue holding Curt’s gaze. “It’s not a matter of bein’ loose…”

“Whatever you wanna call it. I’d expected you’d be more talkative by now.” A brief pause. “Are you really _always_ like this?”

Arthur could only shrug. What could he say? He wasn’t even entirely sure what Curt was asking, not really.

“Were you like this with that band you said you used to live with back in London?” Curt asked. “The Flaming Creatures, wasn’t it?”

Arthur’s head jerked up to stare at Curt. Had he mentioned the Creatures? He couldn’t _remember_ mentioning them. He’d mumbled something on the walk to Curt’s flat last night about having spent a few years in London as a glam groupie, but he didn’t think he’d mentioned what band he’d been with…

“Did I get it wrong?” Curt asked, an awkward uncertainty in his voice, accompanied by a wrinkling of his forehead.

Arthur shook his head. “I just didn’t remember sayin’ anything about them…”

“Oh. But I got the band right?”

Arthur nodded.

Curt smiled with relief. “That’s good. Don’t wanna think my memory’s already going.” He picked up a pack of cigarettes off the table, and put one between his lips. “So, were you any more open with them?” he asked, after lighting the cigarette.

“Yeah.” Arthur shrugged, then looked down at the cold remnants of his breakfast. “I don’t know if…it might ‘ave just been the drugs…” They’d started introducing him to ‘70s drug culture almost immediately. The only thing he’d been introduced to before it, in fact, was Ray’s cock…

“Not gonna be any of that here,” Curt said, with a deep exhalation of smoke that made Arthur fight not to start coughing. “I’m not about to risk backsliding.”

“Good.” The last thing Arthur needed was to develop any drug problems.

The kitchen fell silent again until Curt finished with his cigarette. “Feel like you were more talkative back in February,” he said. “In that bar.”

“Not really.” Arthur smiled weakly. “It’s just…I was the one drivin’ the conversation. Sort of.”

“Hmm.” Curt frowned a moment, then got up and left the room.

Unsure if he was supposed to leave the flat now, Arthur dealt with his dishes and followed Curt back into the main portion of the flat. Curt was sitting on the sofa, his eyes shut, his feet up on the coffee table, and his hands folded behind his head. He looked half-asleep—if not entirely asleep—making Arthur reluctant to say anything.

“Sit down,” Curt said, without opening his eyes. “Making me nervous hovering like that.”

Arthur was about to sit on a nearby armchair, but Curt started patting the sofa beside him, so Arthur obediently sat there, instead.

They sat in silence until Curt opened his eyes, giving Arthur a piercing stare. “Let’s just get something out there in the open,” he said. “You’re not being so quiet because you don’t like me, right?”

Arthur smiled, and shook his head. “That’s absolutely not it.” He felt like he’d do literally anything just to spend a few more minutes basking in Curt’s radiance…

“Glad to hear it.” Curt’s smile was slight, a nervous sort of smile that suggested he really hadn’t believed it, and maybe still didn’t. “So, you think you’ll get more chatty if we fuck some more?” he asked, reaching out one hand to hold Arthur’s.

“I…” It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t want to talk to Curt, but what could he even say? It wasn’t as though they had anything to talk _about_. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you want to waste your time gettin’ to know me when there are more interesting people around?”

“I like a good mystery,” Curt replied, with a grin. “It’s fun.”

Arthur’s face felt hot again. He looked down at their hands, tightly gripping each other. No one had ever called him a mystery before. Most people seemed to think they understood everything about him with just a single glance. They didn’t even care that they got everything wrong.

“Well?” Curt asked, after a few minutes.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Arthur admitted, looking back up at his face. “I can’t promise I’ll ever have anything to say.”

“But do you wanna have sex again? With me?”

“Of course I do.” Who could _not_ want to have more sex with Curt Wild?

“There you go, then.” Curt grinned, and leaned in to kiss him. After the brief kiss, he lowered his head back onto the back of the sofa. “Been a long time since I had a boyfriend,” he breathed, seemingly more to himself than to Arthur.

“That’s not—I—I can’t be a—” Half a dozen objections fought to get through Arthur’s lips at once, tangling themselves up in each other, and clogging his throat.

“What, you’re not serious about me?” Curt asked, lifting his head again. His voice sounded like it was joking, but there was a hurt written on his face that stabbed Arthur.

“That’s not it.” Desperately, Arthur tried to think of the simplest way to explain. “I can’t…the last time I was…” A deep breath. “I’ve had some bad…experiences.” He shook his head. “Every time I get in a real relationship…it’s gone sour. Too sour.”

“The Creatures weren’t good to you?”

Arthur laughed, despite himself. “No, they were—Ray was the only serious relationship I’ve ever had that _didn’t_ become toxic.” He shrugged. “We drifted apart when I went to university, and ever since then…”

“Toxic?” Curt repeated. “Like, bitter fights?”

Arthur shook his head. “Much worse than that.” He didn’t think he could force himself to admit the way most of his so-called lovers had realised they could take advantage of him…

Curt frowned. “All right, I don’t wanna force anything.” He shrugged. “How about friends?” he suggested. “You good with friends who also fuck?”

Arthur felt a smile take over his whole face. “That sounds perfect.”


	2. Chapter 2

The knock on the door was too loud, too insistent, and a bit too early. _Maybe_ it was his dinner, but Curt was pretty sure it wasn’t. And there was no way it was Arthur coming back. Not knocking like that. But if it was who he was afraid it was, there was no point in not answering the door: they knew he was there, and they wouldn’t go away. Plus they’d probably scare off the kid bringing his dinner.

So Curt went ahead and removed the chain before opening the door. As expected, one of those goons was on the other side. He shoved past Curt and made a quick inspection of the apartment, checking over the calendar and the notepad by the phone as well as looking in every room, in the closets, under the bed, and in the drawers of the table beside the sofa. Then he walked back out into the hall, and looked in the direction of the emergency exit. “All clear,” he said.

After a few seconds, a figure wearing an oversized trench coat with the collar turned up and a fedora hat with an unfashionably large and sloping rim appeared in Curt’s doorway. He stopped and turned to look at the goon. “See that we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, sir,” the goon replied.

“Hey, wait!” Curt exclaimed. “I just ordered out for dinner. Chinese. If the kid comes by, pay him and accept the food for me. And give him a good tip; I call that place all the time, and I don’t wanna get a bad rep with them.”

The goon just laughed at him as his boss closed the door to Curt’s apartment. Only then did the ludicrous ‘disguise’ come off, hat and coat being deposited on the hooks near the door, next to Curt’s leather jacket. Since he wasn’t on a public outing, he wasn’t wearing the all-white shit, instead wearing a pair of jeans and a crisp button-down shirt in lavender. It might have been the most casual outfit Curt had ever seen him in. The bleached hair was still in that ugly pompadour, though.

“This better be good,” Curt sighed. Didn’t he know how much it hurt to see him like this? It had been less painful to see him wallowing in pits of cocaine. Fuck, it had been less painful to see the photos of his ‘corpse’ covered in what turned out to be fake blood.

“What was that reporter doing here?” Brian demanded, his real voice coming out of his false face. “Just how much did you tell him? He was here nearly twenty-four hours!”

Curt laughed. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Brian.”

“Tommy.”

“Whoever. Anyway, we never even _mentioned_ you. Much too busy fucking.”

Brian scowled. “The world doesn’t revolve around your cock, you know.”

“My world does.”

“Cute.”

“You used to think so.” No point pretending otherwise.

Brian shook his head, and moved in closer, so close that Curt could smell his musk. That used to drive him up the wall with desire. Now…more saddening than anything else. “If he’s using you to expose me…”

“He’s not.” Curt shook his head. “That kid’s not capable of deceit.” Except maybe convincing his co-workers that he was straight. Though Curt kind of doubted they believed it as much as Arthur thought they did.

“Hardly a ‘kid.’ According to the file, he’s almost thirty.”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to think of him that way.” Curt laughed. “I fucked him once, back in the ‘70s, you know? How can I not think of him as a kid when I first met him in his teens?”

“That wasn’t in the file.” Brian frowned. “You must be mistaken.”

“Unless there’s two kids from northern England with that pretty face who both spent years living with the Flaming Creatures, I can’t be.”

Brian sighed, and sat down on Curt’s sofa. “You’re not making this easy on me.”

“You have no fucking right to say that. You’re the one making my life a living hell—and Mandy’s, too.” Not that Curt often spoke to Mandy—how could he?—but every time some reporter came looking for Brian, they ended up comparing notes on what the Committee for Cultural Renewal did to intimidate them out of talking.

“Circumstances outside my control,” Brian said, shrugging. “You could make it easier on yourself, though. If you were to work with the committee, they—”

“I’m not selling out like you did. I’d rather have no career now and be remembered for my real work than be remembered for pulling shit like your whole Tommy Stone act.”

“A man needs money to live, and a star needs an audience. What audience would have shown up for Brian Slade in the 1980s?”

Curt pursed his lips. “I don’t wanna get in the same argument with you again. Not at the end of such a beautiful day. Just fuck off.”

“I’ve seen his photograph, you know,” Brian said, in an off-hand way. “He’s not that pretty.”

“You didn’t see him back in ’75. Prettiest boy I ever saw. Looked way better in that costume than you did.”

“What costume?”

Curt laughed, and gave a brief summary of the events that played out after the Death of Glitter concert. Might have dwelled a little _too_ long on everything that had happened between him and Arthur, but under the circumstances who could blame him? “I didn’t recognize him right away, back in February, but I’ve been thinking about him and that night a lot since then.”

Brian frowned. “Suppose I had been waiting in the wings for you, too. Was he so pretty you’d have ignored me for him?”

“Back then?” Curt held his breath, trying to deprive his brain of oxygen enough to force his mouth to spit out the lie that he’d have chosen Arthur over Brian that night. “No.” There was no lack of oxygen strong enough. “If you’d been there, I’d have turned my back on the whole fucking world to have you even once more.”

“I wonder if things would have been different,” Brian sighed. “If I’d…been there.”

“We probably would have fucked it up again.” No matter how great the sex had been, their personalities really hadn’t meshed. That didn’t stop Curt’s heart from aching when he remembered what they had had, but…it couldn’t have worked, in the long run.

“And I suppose you think you won’t cock up with this reporter.”

Curt shrugged, and sat down. “It’s not like I plan to louse things up. Or like it’s always me doing it.” Their relationship’s disintegration had been mutual. They had both fucked up.

“Do you love him?”

“C’mon, man, be real. How could anyone fall in love that fast? He’s hot and I like fucking him. That’s all there is to it. Well, almost all.”

“Almost all?” The look of suspicion on Brian’s face was as unnatural as his hair.

“He’s…he seems broken now, compared to what he was ten years ago. And not broken in a normal way. Most people would say he’s better off now: no drugs, decent job, not shacked up with a whole fucking band…” Curt shook his head. “But there’s something different about the way he’s quiet now. Ten years ago it was just cute, just being shy. Now it’s like there’s something inside him that’s been crushed, and he can’t open up because of it.”

“And why would you even care?”

“Why did you care that I was so fucked up that I called heroin ‘my main man’ in talking to two fucking strangers?” Curt shook his head. “He’s broken, and I want to help him get repaired. It’s no different from what you did for me.”

“I see no similarity whatsoever.”

“You wouldn’t.” Brian had always had that blindness: Brian could only see what Brian wanted to see. The ultimate tunnel vision. “But that’s how I see it. I’m reaching out to him because someone needs to, and if it’s not me, it might not be anybody.”

Brian scowled. “You’re not going to change your mind on this, are you?”

“Do I ever?”

“I suppose not. But you must understand why the committee isn’t going to allow it.”

“There’s gotta be something you can do. He’s not trying to expose you.” Curt wasn’t going to stand for it if this got wrecked from the outside for such a stupid reason.

“Would he be willing to sign legal paperwork to that effect?” Brian asked.

“I’m sure he would.” Curt didn’t actually know that, but it was hard to imagine him refusing. Especially since Arthur could have written up a story about Brian changing his name to Tommy Stone at any time in the last year if he had wanted to. Obviously, he didn’t want to expose that secret. Fuck, of _course_ he didn’t. As a fan, the knowledge of what Brian had become had to hurt him almost as much as it hurt Curt.

“If he does, I suppose I can convince them to look the other way.” Brian shook his head. “But I’d rather you broke it off with him.”

“Not gonna happen. He needs this even more than I do.” No point in lying that Curt didn’t need a steady lay. He was always better when he got to have sex regularly, and jerking off was no substitute for the real thing.

“For you, there are other options.” Brian put his hand on Curt’s knee. A shiver ran up Curt’s leg to his spine. “My offer still stands.”

“I’m not changing my image to some squeaky clean shithead willing to tour with Tommy fucking Stone,” Curt said, pushing the hand away. “Even before you fucked up your looks, you were never good enough in bed to be worth that.”

“Ten years ago, you wouldn’t have accepted a space this small in a hotel room, let alone as your primary residence.”

“Ten years ago, I was still getting high regularly.” Curt shook his head. “I’m not the same person I was, any more than you are. Besides, I kinda like being able to walk down the street and not have people follow me around.” Sure, people still sometimes recognized him, but it was always something quiet and personal now. “Unlike you, I didn’t get into this business because I wanted to be adored.” Honestly, he couldn’t even remember why he _had_ gone pro with his music. He’d started the band because it seemed like fun—and he’d hoped it’d make it easier for him to find guys to fuck—but by the time they started making professional appearances, Curt had already been high most of the time…

“Nonsense.” Brian shook his head. “Why else would anyone put up with it? It’s not as though you can count on getting good money out of it.” Despite his own example, making a fucking mint _twice_.

“Maybe I wanted to change the world.”

Brian twitched, and looked away. “Naïve,” he said, after a long moment of silence.

“I was a kid. Of course I was fucking naïve. So were you, once.”

A quiet sound, a bit like half a chuckle. “Perhaps I was. A long time ago…”

An awkward silence settled over the apartment. Not wanting to spend any longer staring at the ruination of the man he once loved, Curt found himself looking anywhere other than at his guest. Eventually, he noticed the clock, and realized it had been long enough since he ordered his dinner that it absolutely should have already arrived. “Look,” he said, turning back to Brian, “my dinner’s probably waiting for me in the hall. Can you take your goons and go?”

“Goons,” Brian repeated. “What a nonsensical way to refer to a security detail.”

“Just get them the fuck away from me.”

Brian sighed deeply, and shook his head. “I suppose you’re through being reasonable for the day.”

“There’s nothing reasonable about you being here. Period.”

“Very well, I’ll go,” Brian said, standing up again, “but if you see that reporter again before he’s signed the non-disclosure agreement, I’ll have him arrested and deported.”

“Deported,” Curt repeated. “Fuck you! Someone oughta deport _your_ ass. Or have you forgotten you’re not from around here?”

Brian smirked down at him. “I’ve been an American citizen since 1970, remember? They couldn’t deport me even if they wanted to.”

“They shoulda taken the citizenship back when you guys got divorced,” Curt grumbled.

“You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“Yeah, but it _should_.”

Brian laughed, and took a step closer, before gently running a hand through the loose hair in front of Curt’s face. “Please reconsider my offer,” he said, in a stage whisper that cut through Curt like a knife. “It’s the best thing for you—it’s the same helping hand I offered you when we first met. You should be thinking of yourself, not some northern brat you barely know.”

Curt couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move—could barely even breathe. After a little while, Brian’s hand was withdrawn, and he went back over to the door, putting on his coat and hat again. Once that extra layer was muffling his presence, Curt was finally able to move again. He got to his feet and followed over to the now-open door.

The hall was filled with the scent of Chinese food, but Curt didn’t see any sign of his dinner. “Hey, where’s my food?” he asked, looking at the goons.

They just laughed at him, and accompanied their master out of the building.

Swearing at them all the way, Curt slammed the door shut, and headed over to the phone. He dialed the number of the Chinese restaurant he’d ordered from. The line was soon answered by the old woman who owned the place. “Hi, Iris, it’s Curt Wild,” he said. A string of very angry Chinese erupted into his ear. “Fuck, I’m sorry, okay?” Curt said, when the old woman paused to take a breath. “I asked those guys to pay for the food and—”

“Just what did you do?” the old woman asked. “They said they were from the government.”

“Yeah, sorta. Look, I didn’t do anything, okay? They’re from the Committee for Cultural Renewal. They come by every so often to strong-arm me, make sure I’m not gonna start releasing any new albums—or that if I do they’ll be wimpy ‘80s-safe ones that don’t play against the rules.”

“You’re sure that’s all they are?” The disbelief in her voice was enough to choke a horse.

“I promise, I didn’t do anything wrong.” No matter what Reynolds thought, fucking a man wasn’t wrong. No matter what Curt’s parents had thought. “Anyway, I’d still like my dinner.”

“No one’s going to deliver to you after _that_.” Fucking…what had they _done_?

“Yeah, I’ll come down there. But could you have it ready for me? I’ve just had a pretty rough time, and I’m hungry. I’ll still pay the kid his tip—twice the usual tip, even.” And that was really saying something: Curt always gave a big tip, because he remembered how hard it was trying to live on the shitty pay those kids got, plus he figured it would help smooth over any problems if he once in a while did something stupid, like accidentally forgetting to put pants on before answering the door.

“Three times the tip,” Iris insisted, “or no dinner for you.”

Curt grimaced. That was enough to buy dinner in itself. “Fine, three times the tip.”

Iris reconfirmed his order, and Curt hung up the phone, deciding to look on the bright side that she wasn’t asking him to pay for the food the gorillas in the hall hadn’t let him have in addition to the food he was going to go eat in the restaurant. Still, Arthur was gonna have to pony up some pretty awesome sex to make up for all the harassment his visit had caused.

But Curt had a feeling that was just what Arthur was planning on anyway.


End file.
